


Nekhaya

by grammarglamour



Series: Nekhaya [1]
Category: Star Trek 2009
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Kinky, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2010-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grammarglamour/pseuds/grammarglamour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a disastrous away mission, old guilt and feelings plague Jim Kirk. The only one with the secret to his recovery is Spock Prime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series eventually deals with explicit, hard core scenes of kink, bondage, and D/s scenarios. It is not meant to endorse or represent any sort of alternative lifestyle in our universe, merely as it relates to these characters in this particular situation. The title is the Vulcan word for "submission".

"Beam us up."

His fingers close tightly around Ensign Robertson's red shirt. He feels the flesh of the ensign's neck against his knuckles, cold and hard. Lifeless.

Spock stands next to him, silent, his eyes the only feature indicating his grief. Logically, it is to be expected that they will lose crew members. But it should not have happened like this.

When they are beamed onto the _Enterprise_ , the transporter room falls silent. All eyes turn to them, turn to Spock standing there, green blood dripping from his nose and a cut on his chin, and Jim, cheek scraped and already stippled with burgundy scabs, his hand still clutching Robertson.

McCoy is there immediately with two nurses, scanning both of them.

"Come on, Jim," McCoy says, reaching down to pry his hand off of the ensign's shirt.

"No," he mutters, jerking his shoulder back.

"Yes, Jim. We'll take his body back to Earth. He'll get a full Starfleet funeral," McCoy says, putting his hands on his friend's shoulders.

"He's getting married," Jim says. "He lives in New Mexico, and his girl is waiting for him."

"We'll make sure she sees him one last time," McCoy says. Then, he lowers his voice. "Let go, Jim. I don't want to sedate you in front of all these people, but I will."

Then it is Spock's hand on his shoulder, hotter and stronger than McCoy's.

"Come, Captain. We need to go to the sickbay," he says.

Jim finally lets go of Robertson's shirt, and the body is immediately whisked away by two medical personnel.

McCoy guides him to the sickbay. Now that he is out of danger, back on safe ground, Jim's legs feel shaky and the bruises and cracks in his body are beginning to make themselves known. Cracked ribs where he had been thrown into a low stone wall, the burning in his cheek where he had slid down it. The knuckles of both hands, scraped raw and sore from pummeling one of the Artakan warriors.

In the sickbay, he sits on the edge of a table, letting McCoy bandage his wounds, poke him with hypos. He stares straight ahead and all he can see are the Artakan warriors, holding Klingon weapons and ambushing the small landing party.

It should have been easy. Make contact with them before the Klingons did. They were so close to Klingon territory. Spock had warned him that the Klingons might have made contact first. They should go down with a more experienced landing party. But Jim didn't listen. He'd seen some of his own stubborn enthusiasm in Robertson, and had let that cloud his judgment. Now Robertson is dead and his fiancée back in New Mexico is a widow before she even got to be a bride.

McCoy comes toward him with one more hypo, but Spock reaches out an arm.

"Allow me," he says.

McCoy nods, and if he wants to say something scathing, he holds it back.

Spock reaches out a hand and places it on Jim's face, fingers on his forehead, thumb under his eye.

"Sleep, Jim," he whispers.

***  
Jim has indeed slept. Spock still sits by his side. It must be late, because only one light burns from the sickbay office. Spock's hand is in his, his long fingers twined with Jim's.

Jim looks at his face, at the scab on his chin the color of dried herbs, the swelling in his nose.

"We are on a course for Earth at Warp 6. We shall reach it in 5.4 days," he says.

"Good," Jim manages to whisper, his voice hoarse. "How are you?"

"I will heal," Spock says. "My injuries were not as severe as yours."

"Or Robertson's."

"Jim, do not dwell on his death. It has occurred, and you are unable to change it," Spock says. He squeezes Jim's hand.

Jim turns his face away. He had jumped in and defended Spock against one of the Artakans – had fought for him, and left Robertson to fend for himself.

"Do not immerse yourself in this guilt," Spock says. "The Artakan had me at a distinct disadvantage, and would have finished me with one blow. Your assistance prevented it. At the time, Robertson was in no immediate danger."

"You know I hate it when you do that," Jim says.

"It is irrational to hate something that is a natural part of my physiology," Spock says.

Jim lets out a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob.

***  
They reach Earth, and Jim nearly gets in a brawl with Admiral Pike over taking Robertson's body back to New Mexico.

They are in Pike's office. It is decorated with souvenirs of his travels – just enough to show he has been out in the galaxy, but not so many that he comes off nostalgic or sentimental. Pike is a pragmatic man.

"Captain Kirk," Pike says, biting into each syllable, "it is out of the question. You will have two weeks' leave, and then you will be back on the _Enterprise_ , bound for the Laurentian System, for your next assignment."

"What if I use my leave to go to New Mexico?"

"Then you will be court marshaled, and you won't make it off the base there. Believe me, Kirk, I can and will have you arrested before your feet touch solid ground," Pike warns.

"Don't you understand?" Kirk finally yells, his temper gone the way of the humpback whales. "It's my fault that kid is dead! The least I can do is show his mother that I am a somewhat responsible –"

"It sets a precedent that you will be unable to follow!" Pike takes a deep breath, straightens his uniform jacket. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and his words measured. "I understand how you feel. When subordinates that we are fond of are injured or killed in the line of duty, we feel responsible. God knows I have before."

"If I had –"

"Stop right there," Pike says, holding up a hand. "You've got to stop with the 'ifs' and placing blame on yourself. If you had protected Robertson instead of Spock, then where would you be?"

He'd be in even more turmoil that he was already, in ways that Pike could never know.

"I know." He sits down in the chair across from Pike.

"I will forgive your outburst this time, Kirk, but in future, please remember that I do have the power to discipline," he warns.

Discipline. Would there ever be enough of that to quell the darkness he feels gnawing at him?

With a nod, he stands and says his goodbyes.

Back on the ship, Spock is already waiting for him in his quarters with the chess board out in between two plates of food.

"I assume you will not be departing for New Mexico," he says.

Jim takes off his dress uniform, changing into a plain black t-shirt and trousers. He leaves his boots off.

"What makes you say that?"

"You look troubled."

"Only because Pike's right," Jim says. He goes into the bathroom, splashes his face with cold water.

Spock does not reply, waiting instead for Jim to continue.

"I can't go to every funeral of every crew member that gets killed," he says. He does not say the other thing that has been troubling him, but somewhere in his heart, he knows Spock senses it.

"It is a statistical probability that many more crew members will meet their demise on missions during their tenure here," he says, laying a hand on Jim's shoulder. "You cannot protect them all."

Jim turns his head to brush his lips against Spock's fingers.

"Let us eat and play a game of chess," Spock says, withdrawing his hand.

Jim smiles at him, the first real smile he's managed in days.

Later, after Spock has thoroughly trounced him at chess and their dinner is long gone, Spock stands.

"I must return to my quarters –" he says.

"Will you come back?" Jim tries to make the question sound casual, but his voice cracks.

"I will, if you would like," he says.

"I would," Jim says.

"Very well," Spock replies with a precise nod.

Jim takes his trousers off, folding them over the back of a chair. He sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. It has been a week since the incident with the Artakans. Yet, he cannot get the battle out of his mind.

He has seen worse battles. He has certainly seen other members of his crew die. But none of those instances had involved such a lapse of judgment on his part. For the first time, he really questions the ethics of his relationship with Spock.

The dinging of the door jars him out of his thoughts, and he calls for Spock to enter. He comes in, dressed in a long Vulcan tunic and loose trousers. Jim marvels that even in pajamas, Spock manages to look like an elder statesman.

"How many times over the past two years have I told you that you can just come in?" Jim asks.

"Too many times to count – believe me, I have tried. As for entering your quarters unannounced – I could, but that would violate your privacy," he says.

"I don't mind you invading my privacy," Jim replies. He reaches out, pulls Spock close.

Spock responds by reaching one arm around Jim's waist, the other coming up to let his hand rest on Jim's cheek. Jim turns, kissing Spock's soft fingertips, his palm. Spock's hand is a hot weight on him, like a stone warmed by the sun.

Normally, by this point, Jim would be hard and wanting. But he has not been able to find that manner of inspiration in the past week. He sighs and rests his head on Spock's chest.

"Do not worry," Spock says. "I would not expect –"

"I know. You're way too much of a gentleman for that," Jim interrupts, smiling against his skin.

They lay together, Spock on his back and Jim with his arm around him. Spock falls asleep easily, his dark lashes sweeping his pale cheek in the darkness, his mouth open slightly. His face is as placid in sleep as it is in his waking moments.

None of that calmness absorbs into Jim's racing mind. There is no sound except for the white noise of the _Enterprise_ around him. He tries to focus on that and Spock's slow, even breathing, the gentle rasp of linen against his bare leg. Still, sleep eludes him for a long while.

When he finally drifts off, it is uneasy. He rises when Spock does, even though he only slept a couple of hours. It leaves him feeling loose and helpless, and he goes through his day in a haze.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still affected by his actions on the away mission, those close to Kirk begin to notice his discomfort.

He spends the first few days of his leave on the ship, wandering around, looking vaguely like a captain should look. It's a skeleton crew, and they dance around him when he wanders by, unsure of what he is doing there or his mood.

Every time he looks in the mirror, all he sees are bags under his eyes, purpling now, and lines around his mouth. He knows Spock sees it too, sees it in the way his eyes scrutinize his face, can hear it in his thoughts like the buzz of an insect.

"I'm fine, Spock," he says one night.

Spock has found him on the observation deck, staring out the window at the city below. It is massive in the evening light, the sun just barely visible and lights beginning to pop on across the city. The stars he sees are sad, weak comparisons to those he is used to. The view from down here seems so helpless. And the city . . . the city is too populated, too close together.

"You are anything but, Jim," Spock says. "You have slept an average of four-point-five hours per night all this week. This is not an acceptable level of sleep in order for you to remain active and alert."

"I'm a grown man," he snaps, "and captain of a Starfleet vessel. If I can't sleep, it's my business."

He crosses the deck, goes to a chair in the corner, and sits.

"On the contrary, Jim, it is everyone's business," Spock says, taking Jim's hand. He presses his lips to Jim's palm, before holding it over his chest, where his heart would be if he were fully human.

Jim jerks his hand away. "And why is that? Regulations? Because I'm the leader here? I can lead without sleep."

Anger is an emotion that Jim is no longer really accustomed to. In his misspent youth, he was full to the brim with anger. It simmered just under the surface of his skin, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation. He would feel it start in his chest, clench his heart tight, and shoot out into his arms, and it could not dissipate until his hands were around someone or something, choking it, hitting it, slamming it against something. The biggest moments of anger were against himself, and he was not satisfied until someone was choking _him_ , hitting _him_ , or slamming _him_ against something.

That changed in Starfleet. He had other areas in which to focus that burning, other things to do, other ways of getting into trouble that would not end in jail time. Starfleet was a new beginning, getting his ship was yet another. He had a purpose. He was no longer drifting through life as a dust mote through air. In space, he was grounded.

So when he feels anger once again inside him, he does not know what to do with it. Those old little voices flare up inside his mind, telling him he is a disgrace to the uniform he wears. Like an exposed electrical wire, he is just one touch away from destroying someone.

And now, that someone is Spock.

He rises, moves toward the doors, but there is a grip on his wrist, holding him tightly.

"You should know better than that," Spock whispers, and his voice is the deadly calm that Jim associated with thunderstorms when he was a kid. Will it just rain? Or will a tornado funnel down from the sky, drill into the corn fields and chew up the house?

Jim turns around, his wrist still in Spock's grip. "Should I?"

The pain in his wrist outweighs the pain he has carried around with him in the past week. It is all centered there, the muscle grinding against bone, his skin hot.

"You should," Spock whispers. He pushes Jim backwards, and they crash against the doors. "You should know that –"

He doesn't say it, would never say it, but Jim is bonded to him and he can hear it all, feel it all. _I need you_ , is what Spock leaves unsaid.

And Jim doesn't say what he wants to, but thinks it, wills it into Spock's mind, concentrates all of his energy on focusing on the pain in his wrist. _And this is what I need._

Spock's eyes widen, and he looks for a moment like an innocent, human child. Realization dawns there, and he nods once.

"Follow me to my quarters," he says, releasing Jim's wrist.

Jim says nothing, merely follows him.

Times like this, when there is hardly anyone on board the ship, he truly feels like the _Enterprise_ belongs to him and Spock. The lights are low across the ship, everyone is tucked away in their quarters or at their posts, and he feels like he and Spock are the only two people there. It is more like home than his mother's house ever was.

When they reach Spock's quarters, Spock grabs both his wrists, whirls him around, and has him up against the wall before he can even gasp.

"Is this what it has come to?" Spock asks, his lips against Jim's ear.

Jim can do nothing, save for nod.

"Then this is what it has come to."

He pulls Jim away from the wall and pushes him roughly over the desk, and he thinks, _Finally. I'll get what I deserve._ The thought is irrational, half-formed in his mind. His head is crowded, full to bursting with grief, worry, arousal, and finally this – pain.

Pain, as Spock undoes his trousers with one deft hand.

Pain, as Spock smacks him hard on the ass, four times.

"Is this what you need?" he asks, voice like cold steel.

"Yes," Jim manages to say.

"Why?"

"I don't fucking know," Jim grunts. Spock leans on him; it's hard enough to breathe, let alone talk.

Spock kisses the back of his neck, and Jim can feel his teeth. "You do know, Jim. Tell me. Why do you need this?"

"I can't, Spock," he whispers.

"Yes, you can." Spock pulls him up, pulls his trousers up, holds him to his chest.

"I let Robertson die. And – and I would do it again, if it meant saving you," he says. "That makes me unfit for duty."

"And you think that my applying physical force will absolve you?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Probably not."

Spock turns him around, puts both hands on either side of his face. "Jim, you did what you had to do. You have to let go of this illogical guilt. If you think that ending our relationship will make you a better captain, I will accept that, but I think we both know it will not."

Jim nods, mute. His eyes soften, his shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Apology accepted," Spock says, still holding Jim's face. He lowers his hands, wraps his fingers around Jim's. "Will you sleep tonight?"

"I'll try."

"Stay here tonight," Spock says. "A change of scenery may help you sleep. It is not logical, but human psychology rarely is."

"Right as usual," Jim says, smiling.

"Very good," Spock says, leaning down to kiss him.

Jim watches Spock disentangle himself, move about the cabin and get into his pajamas. He wishes he could suppress his emotions, get rid of this sick feeling inside himself. The guilt still burns him, the vision of Robertson's body is still fresh behind his eyes every time he blinks. With the weight and heat of Spock's hands gone from his body, the guilt is free to return.

He feels as though he is adrift in space. No, not space. Somewhere more earth-bound. The sea – he feels as though he is adrift in the sea, crusted with salt and water, legs kicking and finding purchase on nothing. Because before this, if there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that being with Spock was right. He had been told so, by his companion's older self, had felt that across all universes, this was what was true and right. But it had officially interfered. Yet it was a part of him now, as surely as his skin. He could no more get rid of his feelings than Spock could ever truly show his.

***  
Jim sits alone in the mess hall the next morning. He still feels the sting of Spock's hand on him, and also the feeling of love that came with it. It is falling into place for Jim, what he needs.

Bones comes up to him. He looks worse for wear himself, but Jim knows that if he says anything, he will only be reminded once more that Bones is a doctor, and therefore apparently has unimpeachable judgment.

"I know you haven't been sleeping," he says, letting his tray clatter onto the table.

"Shouldn't you be searching the slimy corners of San Fransisco, Bones? Trying to find black market liquor strong enough to dissolve the hull of this ship?" Jim asks, not looking up from the newsfeed on the datapad.

"I already found some Cardassian whiskey, but that isn't the point."

"Well then, what is?" Jim looks up, finally, fixing Bones with what he hopes is an icy stare worthy of a starship captain.

"I'm worried," Bones says. "That's the point." He pokes at his scrambled eggs.

"Don't be worried. I'm used to being up all night," he says, smiling.

"Incorrigible."

"That's why you love me," Jim says.

Jim doesn't want to talk to him about this. Bones understands things as a doctor first. He thinks in terms of treatments, solutions, endpoints. But this is something with no endpoint. It starts, it stops, it creeps up on Jim and revisits him at the most inopportune times.

He shifts the subject, asks Bones about his leave from the ship, asks if he did anything interesting in the city, and he takes the bait, regaling Jim with tales of his weekend, seeing old friends, getting hopelessly drunk. Jim listens and jokes with him, hoping that the smiles reach his eyes.

He wants to tell him that Spock is taking care of it, because it feels like he is. The night before, when Spock talked to him, grabbed him, it felt good, it felt like motion. But he knew that Spock was not ready for this, was not ready to give this to Jim in the way that he needs it. Jim could hardly accept it himself, never mind try to ease Spock into the idea. But he trusts that Spock will think of something.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock comes up with a solution to help Jim.

He is in his quarters, alone, trying to rest, when Spock's voice comes over the intercom.

"Captain, you are needed in the conference room."

"What's the matter, Spock?"

"You are needed," Spock replies, a tiny sigh of exasperation blowing through his voice.

Jim gets up, pulls on his boots, and goes to the conference room, only to find Spock sitting there alone, facing a vidscreen.

"Hello, Jim," he says.

"Hello, Jim," a familiar voice echoes from the screen.

Jim moves to see the screen, and there he is – Spock's older counterpart, sitting in his study at his home on New Vulcan. Even on a screen, far away, his presence is tangible.

"Hi, Spock." Jim drums his fingers on the table, looks down.

"My counterpart tells me that you have recently suffered a loss. My condolences," he says, bowing his head.

Jim thinks that he should probably feel some sort of indignation that Spock had been talking to his older self in secret, but he cannot, feeling only relief.

"Yes. Thank you."

"And he says that you have not been sleeping since this incident."

"That is true as well."

"I am sure that Dr. McCoy has already lectured you."

"Would he be McCoy if he didn't?"

"A philosophical question for the ages." There is a small flash in Spock's eyes that Jim takes for a smile.

Jim doesn't think for a second that Spock set up this video conference halfway across a galaxy just to chat about Jim's insomnia. "So, I assume that you have some other lecture for me."

"Not as such, no," the younger Spock says. "Please, sit."

Jim pulls up a chair next to him.

"We have a series of rituals and practices among our people," he begins, "that some have found useful."

"Okay."

"These are rarely imparted to outworlders, and never to those who are not bonded to a Vulcan," the other Spock says.

"It is a process we call 'Nekhaya'. One partner submits himself to the other."

Jim feels a nervous laugh bubble up in his throat, feels his cheeks redden. He's heard of stuff like this. Earth isn't so different from Vulcan, only trust Vulcans to turn it into a philosophical experience.

"This is humorous?" younger Spock asks.

"No, I guess it isn't." He sits back, takes a deep breath.

Spock – "his" Spock, the man whose bed he shares, whose life and safety means more to him than his own – takes his hand. "Jim, hear us out. If you do not, as a human might say, 'get over' this, then you will be removed from duty."

"My younger self is not versed in these rituals, but I am. He tells me you have more than a week left of leave. That is plenty of time to come to New Vulcan and receive an introduction to the Nekhaya, after which time, you will be brought back to the _Enterprise_ , ready to set out once again." On the vidscreen, he can see Spock measuring his words carefully, can see that he sits still and neutral.

He looks from one to the other, sees worry in both their eyes. He knows what they are talking about. Purposeful violence, restraint, torture. He does not know if that is what he needs, but he trusts that neither of them would suggest anything that had not been carefully thought out.

He sighs. "I'll go. I'll do it."

Spock leans over to press his lips to Jim, and Jim feels warmth spreading through him. This simple touch has already begun to melt the cold block of guilt that has solidified in his stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirk begins his training with Spock Prime.

The next morning finds Jim and Spock in a shuttle bound for New Vulcan. They do not speak much during the hours it takes to get there. Jim sits in his seat, arm propped up on the armrest, his hand to his mouth.

He feels silly, more than anything. Trust is beside the point, a given, but he cannot shake the feeling that he should work through this himself. Now the ambassador is involved, and Jim cannot help but feel that he has cried wolf.

As the shuttle descends to New Vulcan, to the plateau where Spock has built his home, Jim's mind quiets. The landscape is beautiful, rugged. Spock's home is shielded by brilliant red rocks, the setting sun creeping below the horizon, throwing a red-orange glow across the plateau. The sight fills Jim with peace.

Though the colony resembles Old Vulcan, Jim knows it could never be the same for the inhabitants, but they have made it into a home. He can see to the center of the settlement and the new gathering hall there. It had been completed only a few short months before, and he had attended its official dedication ceremony at Spock's side.

"This will help you," Spock says, the first words he has spoken in hours.

"I – I trust you," Jim says. "I trust him," he adds.

"It is wise," Spock replies.

They walk together. From a distance, the dwelling would hardly be visible on the plateau, merely appearing as a rock formation.

He answers the door before they ring the bell, dressed in a long gray coat, with black trousers and soft black shoes, his gray hair perfectly in place. He greets them warmly, but there is a minute tightness around his mouth that belies worry.

"Welcome, do come in," he says, ushering them inside.

The house is cool, and Jim takes a deep breath.

The older Spock leads them into the dining room and gestures toward the glass-and-metal table.

"Andorian wine?" he asks.

"That would be lovely," Spock replies.

He pours three glasses of the wine, and Jim takes a sip. It is cool and crisp, not unlike wine on Earth, but there is an underlying hint of smoke and distant places, a taste he does not have a word for.

The two Spocks spend a moment discussing news of the colony. Jim listens intently. He needs to know these things, not just for his functions as captain of the _Enterprise_ , but because it is important to Spock. He would never admit it, but Spock likes it when Jim asks about family members or associates on Vulcan.

Even though Jim listens, they do not address him and he makes no attempt to interject into the conversation. He feels as though this is part of the reason he is here – not to talk, but to be silent, to allow others to control. It is a new feeling for him, a new drive. He has talked his way into and out of every conceivable situation in his life, so to be silent is a new sensation.

Their conversation concludes, and the two Spocks bid goodbye to one another. The younger one turns to Jim.

"I am grateful that you are willing to do this," he says. "I will be in the settlement, visiting my father, and I will return in three days."

Jim nods, fearing that speech would result in an unseemly display of human emotion. Spock kisses him gently before leaving.

"I will give you some time to rest and collect your thoughts," the older Spock says when his younger counterpart leaves.

Jim nods again, following him deeper into the house. They come to the bedroom. Spock opens the heavy wooden door to reveal a darkened chamber beyond. A rug covers the stone floor. Red curtains dress the windows. The room feels cloistered and intimate.

Jim sees, at one end of the room, that there is a massive wooden frame erected. Leather straps hang from it. He stares at it and for the first time, this flame of burgeoning desire flickers. He thinks he might be mistaken, might just go back to his regular life, might not need anything deeper than the usual adrenaline-fuelled life of a Starfleet captain.

"I would never force you to do anything you did not wish to do," Spock says. He lays his hand on Jim's back. "But I do encourage you to try this. If, once we begin, you wish to stop, I will."

Jim looks away from the frame, to the bed. The bed is, in contrast, soft and inviting, made up with a thin quilt and padded with pillows. He will share this bed with Spock.

"I'll let you know, don't worry," he says.

Spock nods, and leaves him alone in the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock Prime introduces Jim to a world of domination, pain, and mysterious Vulcan rituals.

"I did this for you once before," Spock says. "Another you, another world."

"How did I – he – do?"

"He was . . . remarkably beautiful throughout." His voice is as feather-light as the touch on Jim's arm.

"I'm ready."

Spock nods, a motion as precise as the thrusting of a piece of machinery. "Strip. Fold your clothes on the bed."

Each layer that Jim removes is a layer of feeling. As he removes his jacket, he sheds the fear he has been carrying with him since they arrived on the planet. He feels his muscles relaxing. With his t-shirt, his inhibitions go. Removing his trousers, he begins to feel the guilt that has burrowed its way into his bones seeping out. And as his socks and underwear get added to the pile, the anger within himself begins to ebb away like liquid being siphoned. There is still plenty to go around, and he knows the next few days will dredge up old wounds and old feelings. There may not be enough time to remove them all.

He turns around and faces Spock. The gentle old man who saved him from an alien monster two years ago is gone. In his stead is the picture of Vulcan calm and detachment, his eyes two stones, his mouth set hard and immutable.

"I will need to prepare you further," he says. "Follow."

"Yes, sir," Jim mumbles.

They exit the safe haven of the bedroom, the comfort of the red draperies and polished wood. They cross the common room and Jim feels exposed. He looks out the window, even though he knows no one will be there. He cups his hand over his flaccid cock, feeling the need to protect himself.

"Don't cover up," Spock orders, his back still turned to Jim, still walking toward some unseen chamber within the house.

"Sorry, sir," Jim says.

"Try it again and I will bind your hands, Jim."

He doesn't ask how Spock knew he was trying to cover up, knows the question would be impertinent.

Spock stops, opens a door. Jim sees over his broad shoulders that it is a bathroom, and his stomach clenches in fear. Panic rises in him like a solar flare, licking at his heart and stomach.

Spock stands just in the door, holds it open for Jim. He enters, stands in the middle of the room, his knees trembling as Spock shuts the door.

Jim takes a good look at the room. Everything is normal, in place. It looks like any other bathroom. But he sees, folded on the edge of the counter, a red bag equipped with a long hose. There is a nozzle at the end. The air rushes out of his lungs, then, and he thinks for a second that he will not be able to handle this, that maybe he should just go see a Starfleet psychiatrist.

Then Spock's hand is on his shoulder, his grip tight but still conveying the affection he knows the old man feels for him. The smooth pads of his fingers press into Jim's flesh, and with each pulse, he feels the silent mantra underneath: _you can do this; you_ will _do this_.

"I want you on all fours," Spock says. "Inside the bath tub."

Jim takes a deep breath and crosses the room. The bath tub is huge, square, and carved from reddish stone. He climbs over the edge, inside it, and kneels as he has been instructed to do. The stone is rough against his palms and knees. In this position, he can barely see out of it. Standing, it hits him almost at waist height. Kneeling like this, he is nearly engulfed by it.

Then he is aware of slick fingers inside him, the medicinal smell of oil. It chokes his nostrils, all his senses kicked into overdrive. The spicy sweetness of it makes him want to retch. He swallows and it is like mercury in his throat, viscous, metallic, and toxic.

Spock's fingers stretch him, fill him. Just as he is on the verge of needing more, just as soon as it registers in his mind that there is something there, he withdraws. Jim is left feeling open and wanting. Then he hears a rustling sound. He does not dare to turn around. He hears the water being turned on, but none fills the tub – it is all being caught in the bag he knows Spock is holding.

Still, when he feels the nozzle inserted inside him, he gasps. His muscles contract around it, try to push it out. But Spock holds it firm. Suddenly, he is filled with warm water. At first, it feels good, the sweep of it inside him calming. But as more and more rushes into him, he feels too full, his stomach cramps, he breaks out in a sweat.

"Please, Spock," he pleads, though what for, he cannot say, because he knows that if the nozzle is removed, he will surely begin to sob. He cannot bear to think of himself being empty ever again.

"Silence."

The water has stopped rushing into him, now merely sitting inside him, waiting to be let out again. He has never felt such utter shame in his life – shame that his body could accommodate so much fluid, shame that he is kneeling here taking it, and shame that he needs that fullness inside him. Now, he wants it.

Then the nozzle is removed, and he has to work very hard to keep from utterly embarrassing himself.

"I'll give you a moment to yourself," Spock says. "Meet me back in the bedroom."

As soon as Spock leaves, Jim is up. He makes it to the toilet in time, though it is a close call. As it all rushes out of him, he feels as though he has been broken down into his basic components and put together slightly askew, like an improperly glued vase with gaps and missing chips of porcelain. Even after he finishes, he sits there, tears rolling down his face.

He has to gather himself together. Spock awaits him. He cleans up, splashes some water on his face.

He regains his footing as he crosses the common room, back to the bedroom. He feels open, ready.

Spock is standing near the wooden frame by the wall, hands clasped behind his back, face evincing no joy or pain at what he has just put Jim through.

Jim stands before him, though does not look him in the eye. He cannot, should not.

Spock reaches out, puts his hand on Jim's neck, and pulls him in for a kiss. His mouth is soft, and Jim reaches up, lets his fingers caress the lines of his face, his hand coming to rest on Spock's. The skin is rough with age and work.

Spock breaks the kiss. "Stand inside the frame," he says.

Jim stands, and Spock pulls down the leather straps, affixes them at regular intervals along Jim's arms. He is totally immobilized. Kneeling, Spock brings two long straps from the corners, wrapping the supple leather around Jim's ankles. His legs are spread, his cock fully erect and his balls hanging, the cheeks of his ass pressed together.

When he is fully bound, Spock goes to the table next to Jim, and retrieves two items. One is a long, thin piece of varnished wood with a strap of leather attached to holes in both sides. Spock undoes the strap from one side, brings the bit to Jim's mouth, and ties it again. His mouth is forced open around the apparatus. It is lightweight, but big. He feels saliva beginning to gather around it, in the corners of his mouth. He tries to say, "No, please, don't," but it only comes out as a series of alarmed grunts.

The second piece is phallic in size and shape, polished and glossed like the one in his mouth. It has a wide base, then a groove, and the shaft is smaller. Spock moves behind him, and once again, Jim feels slick fingers prying him open. The task is all the more difficult because of the way his ass is clenched together, but Spock still opens him up enough, and soon his fingers are gone. The phallus is in their place.

Once again, it is that exquisitely humiliating feeling of being filled. He feels his muscles close around the ridge in the apparatus, holding it in tightly.

Spock once again goes to the table, this time taking a long cord of leather. He holds it in one hand, wrapping the other around Jim's cock. He jerks within his bonds, crying out around the gag.

"Shh," Spock says, stroking gently.

He takes the cord, and wraps it around Jim's cock, bringing it down to his balls, wrapping it around them once. Jim is fully bound, his cock throbbing for release, but it will not come. The head is exposed, flushed a deep red, precome beading at the slit and running down, pooling at the seam where leather meets skin. He tosses his head back, his eyes shutting in pure agony.

"In time, Jim," Spock says. "You must learn to let go of that over which you have no control. Right now, you have no control over your sexual organs. _I_ am in control of those. Do you see?"

Jim nods.

"Very good."

Spock disappears behind him. He strains to hear what is going on, but all he hears is the rustle of Spock's robe.

When the first lick of the strap connects with his back, it lights him on fire with surprise. He pulls on his arms, dances around as best as he can with his feet bound.

"Be still."

The strap continues to lash at Jim. His back feels hot where it hits, the feeling remaining even as the strap moves to another spot. Spock is as precise with his whipping as he is with everything. Jim feels it lick across his shoulders, then the small of his back, even coming to rest once on each hip, the sensitive skin there screaming out at him.

This is what he needed. This pain, this rush. He can feel each chemical being released in his brain: endorphins, dopamine, adrenaline. It distracts him from the pain of his hard cock, the phallus inside him. He is nothing but stinging skin and bruised flesh. He is no longer responsible for anything – death, life, or any state in between.

He cries out with each one, each time letting go of an increment of old pain. The cries are not about the lashes across his back. They are about the crew members he has seen die. They are about the wasted nights in Iowa, committing petty acts of theft simply because he could. They are about the unkind words from his stepfather, the pain of his brother leaving home.

It seems like an eternity passes before the lashing stops. Then Spock's hands are on him, the only thing that could be hotter than the welts on his back.

As Spock's fingers rest upon him, he feels nothing but gratitude. Vulcans don't touch just anyone. Both Spocks have never shied away from touching Jim. Whether it is the younger Spock's supple, strong fingers, or this Spock's older, wizened grip, Jim feels like the luckiest man in any universe to be privy to these men's fingers.

He feels the press of Spock's lips to the nape of his neck, and he thinks he might die right there.

Spock unties the gag at his mouth, sets it back on the table.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, even though he could easily cull the information from Jim's mind.

"Like shit," Jim replies. His voice is boots on gravel, sandpaper across silk. His teeth are sore from biting down.

"Curious turn of phrase," Spock says. He removes the plug from inside Jim. Once again, he is left feeling empty, stretched. He needs it now, needs that inside him, an anchor.

Jim laughs, has no other choice to laugh.

"Are you ready to climax?" he asks.

"Please, yes, please," Jim begs.

Spock unties the bonds at his arms and legs first, saving the leather strap wrapped around his cock and balls for last.

When his cock is freed, Jim feels relief like he has never felt before. The air in the room nearly makes him come.

"I want you to bring yourself to climax as you would if you were alone," Spock says. He takes a step away from Jim, folds his hands behind his back, and stands expectantly.

Shame flares once more within Jim. It's been a long time since he masturbated. He has never really needed to. There was always a willing body there for him. It is too much, too intimate. And maybe, on its own, it wouldn't feel like so much of a violation. But after everything else that has happened to him, it seems like overkill, too-rich icing on an already decadent cake.

"Well," he says, trying to bide time, for even the shattering ache in his cock is nothing to the knowledge that he will be laid totally bare in front of this man. "You should know that the very act of observation changes that which is being observed."

Spock approaches him once more, and lightning-fast smacks Jim across the face. Jim blinks once, twice, unable to fathom what has just happened. He realizes now that this is no game. He is no longer Jim and Spock is no longer himself.

Tears spring to his eyes, spilling over, not at the pain of the slap, though that was substantial enough, but at the knowledge that he has disappointed this man. This man, who is barely more than a stranger, yet so close to him that he can hear and feel what the other feels.

"I'm sorry," Jim whispers.

"Do not apologize," Spock says, his voice low and deadly. "Just do as I have asked."

Jim nods, reaching his aching arms to his face, wiping away his foolish tears. He closes his eyes, centers himself with a deep breath, and brings his hand first to his nipples, squeezing each one in turn, before letting his hand drift down to his cock, still hard and hot against his belly. He swipes his thumb over the head, spreading the precome around, making himself slick. Then he closes his fist over it, squeezes, pumps once. He moves his palm over the head, and his hips jerk. He reaches behind himself with his other hand, letting his forefinger slip inside himself. He's still slick from the oil Spock used earlier, still open, and his finger slips in easily. He adds his middle finger, reaching in and out of himself in tandem with the stroking of his other hand.

Finally, his hips are jerking in those final spasms, his mind going blank. His hand clamps down on his cock, his come spurting out, dripping over it.

He stops, his hand held in place, his breath coming in short bursts.

"Lovely," Spock says, his voice hoarse. "Now, lick yourself clean."

Jim brings his trembling hand to his mouth, runs his tongue over his fingers, over the back of his hand. It tastes salty, bitter, familiar and foreign all at once. His cheeks burn at the thought of how easily he followed this command, knowing he has been fully claimed.

Then Spock's arms are around him, his hands on the back of his head, enfolding him completely in an embrace.

Jim lets go, then, lets his body finally relax. He slumps against Spock, his arms limp at his side.

Spock pulls back, places a kiss on Jim's forehead. He crosses the room to a closet, pulling out a robe, and wraps it around Jim. The weave of the material is loose, but the texture is soft. Jim thinks of the soft fluff of cattails by the river where he grew up, or the pillowy rug that lay in his quarters on the ship.

He takes Jim by the shoulders, lays him down on the bed. Taking off his own robe, he lays next to Jim, running one hand along his body, letting it come to rest on Jim's face. Jim turns his head, leans in to his palm, kisses it softly. Spock inhales sharply, just like his younger counterpart does when Jim does that.

Outside, the bright orange sun of New Vulcan has set on the horizon, leaving a brilliant sunset of deep golden yellow and rich purple in its wake. The two moons above the planet are rising, glowing white-yellow in the early evening.

Jim burrows in the soft bed, curled next to Spock, enveloped in his arms. He drifts into a perfect, restful sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim learns a lot about himself, and even a few things about Spock Prime.

Jim has been reduced to nothing more than nerve endings. Each touch of the whip or Spock's fingers or even the brush of his robes against Jim's legs sends him into paroxysms of need. Need for more contact, need for release, need for this feeling of falling to stop.

He feels as though he has been trussed to this frame for an eternity, caught in some web out of time. His mind no longer registers notions of duty or captaincy.

When Spock unties him, finally, he nearly sobs with the relief of it. He clutches Spock's tunic, mumbles incoherent words of gratitude, scarcely able to hold himself upright.

Spock stands over him, his countenance as immobile as ever, and strokes Jim's hair.

"Kneel," he says.

Jim sinks to his knees without question. His cock is still bound by the leather strap. He hates it, hates the ache it produces in his balls, hates the way the head of his cock flushes so dark. Yet he loves it, as well, because it reminds him that he is just a body. He is not the emotions that have led him to this place.

Spock flicks open his tunic, undoes his trousers. His cock is hard, too, flushed a deep shade of olive. The hair that surrounds it is gray, a few strands of black still scattered among the rest.

Jim knows what to do without being asked. He presses his lips to it, kissing his cock gently before opening his mouth. He sucks the head in first, swirls his tongue around the ridge. It is hot and smooth, filling his mouth. His head bobs up and down, his mouth enveloping the shaft further and further until his nose is buried in Spock's pubic hair. It has the same spicy medicinal smell of the oil he has been using to open Jim up, that smell of cloves and eucalyptus.

Spock's fingers grip Jim's hair. "That's it," he says. "Yes, my boy, that's it."

When he comes, his hips go rigid, frozen in time, pressing his cock against Jim's throat. Hot, impossibly hot, semen floods the back of his throat. He swallows it all.

"Stand," Spock says.

Jim brings himself to his feet, his knees shaking. He keeps his eyes to the floor, even though it takes all his control to do so.

"You have done very well these past few days," Spock says. He strokes Jim's face, runs his thumb over his lips, lets his hand trail down to Jim's hip, his ass, his thigh. He is a racehorse being rubbed down after a race.

"Thank you, sir," he says.

"But there is one more element to this that you must endure. You see, your temperament dictates that you may need sessions like this from time to time. And you may be off in some distant quadrant when one of those times arise, unable to come to New Vulcan," he says.

A flush creeps over Jim's body, blooming like a sunset over his chest, his neck, and his face. He knows where Spock is going with this, knows that what he says next will be unbearable for Jim.

"And so I must instruct my younger counterpart, as I have instructed you," Spock concludes. "He must be able to give you what you need."

Jim closes his eyes, his throat tightening. It's one thing to be stripped and wanting in front of this older Spock, this Vulcan who has seen everything the universe has to offer, not to mention Jim's own mind. He has melded with Jim, both versions of him, and it has left a bond between them, as surely as the mating between Jim and his version of Spock has left a bond between the two of them. But his Spock does not know him this way. He knows, abstractly, that Jim needs the physical to pull him out of the mental. But he has never seen it, never seen Jim naked and begging.

"This troubles you."

"Yes," Jim confesses.

"He will still love you," Spock assures him. "He does not love you because he thinks you're stronger than everyone else. Quite the contrary – he loves you because he sees your vulnerability."

For the first time, Jim is shocked into looking at Spock's face.

"Do you know how alluring that is? To _feel_ things the way you do? You don't merely react with feeling, Jim, you let it consume you. It is different than the way other humans feel," he says. He cups Jim's face in his hands. "The version of yourself that I knew had the same trait. It was what I loved most about him."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes together.

Even though he knows it is coming, the day on which Spock arrives fills Jim with surprise and dread.

He and the older Spock eat breakfast together – for, as Spock has reminded him, they are to be equals in every other area, save for the proverbial "bedroom" – and they talk of mundane things. Jim recounts his tales of daring and adventure; Spock gives him the intricacies (some might say "gossip") of the Vulcan rebuilding.

They take a walk, circling the plateau where Spock makes his home. In the distance, the city gleams, the façade of life and normalcy that they have erected in place of their homeland. The Vulcans have built it up in their own style, and the air is certainly as hot and thin as it must have been on the other planet, but there is no substitute, he knows. He tries to imagine what it would be like to live on an ersatz Earth, to live in a cornfield absent of the hollows and hamlets of Iowa, or another anonymous bay without the hills of San Francisco.

Spock leads him back inside, to the bathroom. But what awaits him is not the humiliation of that first day. Rather, he is instructed to strip while Spock fills up the tub with warm water. Spock helps him into the tub, kisses Jim as he settles into the water.

Along the edge of the tub sits several pots of herbs and oils. Some smell sweet and floral, others spicy, but all smell ancient.

He has showered since he has been here, but this is different. This isn't bathing; it's ceremony. Jim knows that, lets the warm water engulf him. Spock pulls a chair next to the tub.

"Traditionally, I should kneel," he says. "But I do not think my knees will allow it."

He closes his eyes, murmurs in Vulcan. He reaches to his left, takes one of the pots of herbs, and sprinkles the contents into the water. As the dried herbs come to life, their scent drifts up in the languid steam rising into the air. Something like lavender, but still nothing Jim has ever smelled before. He breathes it in deeply. Spock whispers another benediction, this time dipping his thumb into a pot of oil. He brings his thumb to Jim's forehead, alighting briefly on the three points of a mind-meld. It smells of oranges and sunlit summer days.

Spock takes a soft cloth, dips it in the water, and begins to swipe it over Jim's body – chest, back, legs, neck. Jim closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of the soft touches and the gentle rasp of the cloth. The action makes Jim feel protected, cherished.

When he stops, Jim opens his eyes again. He looks at Spock's face and sees contentment. The look in his eyes tells Jim that he's miles away – miles, years.

Jim waits for him to come back to himself.

Spock opens his eyes, dips his fingers into another pot and sprinkles more herbs into the steaming water. These release a bitter smell, redolent of kitchen herbs. Jim wants to ask what Spock murmurs as he continues to anoint him with the oil, wash his body, but he knows that the words Spock speaks cannot be rendered into English. They are ancient expressions of a time long-past in Vulcan history. The once-barbaric practices of taking, claiming, and hurting, have been sublimated into these ceremonial acts.

Finally, Spock leans down, kisses Jim deeply. A human might smile at this moment, but compared to the look Jim sees in Spock's eyes, a smile would seem cheap.

Jim remains still as Spock dries him, dresses him in a thin white robe. The robe has a high cowl neck and fastens at the shoulder. It covers Jim from neck to ankle, but does not feel confining.

They walk outside into the heat of the afternoon. The last vestiges of moisture evaporate from Jim's hair and skin; the heat warms him to his core.

Spock stands straight, stares ahead.

"What was he like?" Jim asks.

"The Jim Kirk I knew?" Spock does not turn his head.

"Yeah."

Spock sighs, shifting his feet. "He was the most beautiful and infuriating human I have ever met. Oftentimes, all at once."

"And he was like – like this?" Jim asks. His voice shakes.

"Very much so," Spock replies.

Jim nods, looks straight forward over the plateau. They stand in silence, and Jim can hear the breeze running over the sand and rocks around him.

He knows that if he told Spock – either Spock – that he does not want to complete this, they would stop. Things would go back to the way they were before, and none of them would mention it again. But he knows he will not do that. It is not a matter of honor, but a matter of trust. Jim trusts that Spock will guide him.

The shuttle makes its way toward the plateau, now just a dot on the horizon. Jim straightens, throws his shoulders back. The shuttle lands and Spock climbs out. He also wears traditional Vulcan robes, simple folds of black cascading off of his slim hips.

The two Spocks greet one another with a slight nod of the head, their hands raised in the Vulcan salute.

"Has the training been satisfactory?" Spock asks. He does not look at Jim or otherwise acknowledge that he is standing right there.

"Yes, quite," the elder Spock replies. "Let us go inside."

Jim follows them inside, knowing better than to speak. It stings that Spock has not yet greeted him, but he knows that it is not personal. The two Spocks seat themselves at the table, the older one instructing Jim to prepare tea for them.

He goes into the kitchen, hands shaking as he prepares the tea. Their voices filter into the room, and he feels their presence acutely. He brings the tea tray out to them.

"Sit with us," Spock says, and Jim sits in between them.

Finally the younger Spock turns to him, puts his hand on his arm. The touch is light, but Jim feels it straight into his bones. "How do you feel?"

Jim glances from one Spock to the other, from black hair to grey.

"Speak freely," the older Spock instructs.

"I feel . . . better. I've been sleeping."

"Good," Spock says. "And?"

"It's been strange. Overwhelming." He inhales, breath hitching, and lets it out again, relieved at this confession.

Spock nods.

They sit together at the table, drink their tea. Jim wants to touch Spock, wants to feel the reassuring warmth of his hands, the solid weight of his thighs.

"Jim, go into the bedroom and wait for us," the older Spock says.

"Yes, sir," he says.

Though unsure as to where in the room he should wait, or in what manner, he goes. The test was not whether he would do exactly as Spock wished, but rather if he would follow the command without question.

He goes into the bedroom and sits on the bed, his hands under his thighs, trying to hear where his companions might be or what they are talking about. He can hear nothing, so he contents himself with remaining seated on the bed.

It seems like forever before the doorknob turns. He gets off the bed, kneels on the floor with his head bowed, and waits.

They enter, both coming up to him and laying hands on his shoulders. He does not dare look up. He senses from them compassion, contentment, pleasure.

They speak to one another in Vulcan and the harsh, arid words fly over his head. He feels like furniture, decoration.

"Do you know your purpose here?" the older one asks.

"Yes, sir," Jim answers.

"What is that purpose?"

"To submit. To pleasure. To be silent." He is alarmed at how quickly the words fly to his lips.

"Very good, boy," he says, his fingers combing through Jim's hair, gripping lightly.

"What else have you learned here?" This time the younger Spock speaks, his voice low and wanting, and Jim flushes with arousal at the sound of it.

"That I need to let go. To – to things that are out of my hands," Jim says.

"Excellent."

Spock – his Spock – reaches down and puts the slightest pressure on Jim's neck, beckons him to stand. Jim stands before him, head still bowed, and Spock reaches for the opening of the robe, unfastens it, and lets it fall open. Jim feels a deep red blush spread over his chest and his face. He has been naked in front of Spock so many times, has seen and been seen, but that was before. Now he is stippled with bruises and the lash marks from the whip.

"Do you feel absolved?"

The question catches Jim off-guard. He has forgotten, over the preceding days, that that was what he had sought coming here. But he does feel absolved, for he knows now that there was nothing to feel guilty about at all. "Yes," he says, knowing that Spock will understand the rest.


End file.
